Crazy Little Thing Called Love
by KelliP
Summary: "There is one inexplicable, mysterious phenomenon that I do believe in still… Us." - 5x20 The Fast and the Furriest.


Had nothing for a post-ep that there are always plenty more of. This doesn't _exactly_ relate with the episode but sprung to mind instead. Enjoy.

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**Crazy Little Thing Called Love**

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"_There is one inexplicable, mysterious phenomenon that I do believe in still… Us."_

- 5x20 The Fast and the Furriest

* * *

She loves him.

It catches her off-guard at the most random of moments.

Her stomach somersaults low and wild, her heart drums a heavy tattooed rhythm against the inside of her ribcage. Her mind floats high in bliss, exhilarating as it spins dizzyingly as she floats gently down to Earth. She swallows hard and blinks the world – him – back into focus as a prickling moisture collects over her lenses.

However it captures her heart, it always leaves her a little breathless and completely helpless, the blood in her veins hot and coursing as her body sings out for him.

All because she loves him.

* * *

She loves the way he believes in all these unknown things.

She's a skeptic. Always has been. It's her nature. But Castle – no. He pours time and effort into these wildly out-there theories about zombies and ghosts and Bigfoot. It grows a little tired when they're at work and his imagination blankets his ability to look at the hard evidence; she won't deny that. But when they're at home and eating breakfast and he's reading to her the latest reported sightings of Bigfoot in New York long after the case is closed -

Yeah. It puts more than a hint of a smile on her face. That he can still believe in all these mysteries and hope for _more_ in a world already mapped out and full of horrors is so very rare. So she curls tender fingers around the crook of his elbow and leans into the warmth of his side, her cheek falling to rest against his shoulder as she glimpses at the glowing iPad in his hands.

She'll humour him just a little and hopes he'll never change.

* * *

She loves the way he makes her coffee.

In the morning, in the break room – it doesn't matter. He's always the same. Careful movements as if it's a fine craft, the same rhythm slipped into each time he brews a cup. Fresh beans. The rich aroma floating through the room. Creamy, silky milk. The tilt of the pitcher at the perfect angle. The steam wafting through the air as the foaming liquid rises in temperature. The delicate swirl as it slides into the already warmed mug. Her body burns hot with a craving at just the thought.

But it's not the techniqueshe loves. No. It's him. The way those powder blue eyes catch the light that glows from within. The soft smile that creeps on his lips to lift just the corners as he passes the mug over. The way his entire body leans expectantly forward just that little bit as he waits for her first sip.

In this moment – still wrapped in the blankets of his bed with the warm morning light yet to spill across the sheets – she takes the mug gratefully from his grasp, skin sparking as their fingers brush lightly against one another's. She raises the cup to her mouth, the porcelain cool against her lips despite the steam floating up and the hot, swirling liquid within. The bottom tips up and she lets the rich coffee wash over her tongue, smooth as it slides down her throat. Her eyes flutter shut as she sighs a little heavenly.

Her morning coffee always tastes better when it's made with his hands.

* * *

She loves the way he can be so spontaneous.

Loves the way he makes _her_ spontaneous.

Before they met, her life had been lived in routine. Alarm early in the morning. Coffee. Work. Gym. Home. Week in and week out she'd clung to order in some vain attempt to never have everything in her life thrown around like it had with her mother's murder all those years ago.

So now she packs an overnight bag and grabs his keys to drive them to the Hampton's at an hour's notice (perhaps not so adventurous on her behalf) and lets him whisk her away for a last-minute ski weekend (a little too adventurous, all on his behalf). And even when all the bridges and tunnels are closed and they're stuck outside the city in a blizzard (because they just _had_ to drive upstate for the long weekend) and she has work in just a few hours, all she can think about as they curl up in the sinfully soft bed of the only-remaining six hundred dollar a night suite is that it's been an adventure.

She can't think of anywhere else she'd rather be.

* * *

She loves the way he brings her joy.

It's always in the simplest things. The way he'll begin dinner at just the right time so she comes home to the aroma of a freshly cooked meal. The way he leaves post-it notes in every corner of her apartment, lying hidden in wait to be found, each one with a tiny story jotted in his script just for her. The way he tells these ridiculously exaggerated, _fabricated_ stories just to bring a smile to her face, and the way _he _smiles once she's done the same.

The way the tips of his fingers tap out a rhythm on her skin when there's a story he desperately wants to share with her. The way he sweeps the hair off her face, thumb stroking smooth across her cheek to leave a tingle in its wake. The way he holds her in bed, cradled in the safety of his embrace, hands wide and hot as they cling to her hips. The way he kisses her so soft and warm and full of love before they fall to sleep at night.

She hopes she can bring joy to him just the same.

* * *

She loves the way he's so comfortable in her life.

From the shadows of her apartment she watches him move through her home with ease. To her bathroom, to clean his teeth with the blue toothbrush he leaves beside hers. To her kitchen, to brew a morning mug of coffee with the beans he still believes she doesn't know he switched. To the Wii she bought for yoga, to start up tennis or Guitar Hero or one of the other dozen games he's bought over.

To her study, to answer the ringing phone she can't get to while she cooks, to talk with her father until she's dishing up two plates and he has to go. To his drawer in her dresser, to change, to pluck out the old-school pen and spiral notebook he scribbles in when the backlight of his laptop keeps her awake. To her couch, to sit with whatever latest book he's left behind to read while she does the same.

And to her bed, to sling one arm low around her waist and hold her securely against his chest as they sleep.

* * *

She loves the way they fit together so perfectly.

Fervent lips mould to hers, broad shoulders rise above her, arms either side enveloping as he embraces her. Her long, slender legs wrap high around his waist to bring his body down to her. He does the same, a wide, warm palm at the small of her back tugging her up, her back arching her body into the curve of his. They meet in the middle, the silk of his boxers cool against her bare skin and his touch searing. It sends a shiver racing down the length of her spine as a choked moan slips from her throat.

So perfect.

* * *

She loves the way the image of their future dances so easily in her mind.

She sees the day he proposes clear before her eyes. Big, yet intimate. A whisper of the question against her lips, a promise of the life they can live. A diamond ring – simple, sparkling, elegant. She knows he'll get it right. He always does.

She sees their wedding just as bright. A small ceremony – somewhere private, their own sanctuary, a gathering of only close family and friends. The creamy white of her floor-length dress sparkles bright as it catches the sunlight, the glints radiating outward reflecting the same endless love in her eyes. He meets her halfway down the centre aisle with that look of childish excitement because he _just can't wait_. And he takes her hand between both of his and guides her to the makeshift alter to declare the commitment they've long made to one another.

A boy, the spitting image of his father. Wide blue eyes and a mess of floppy brown hair and a mouth that won't stop talking. He wanders into their room while they sleep, footsteps padding soft on the hardwood floor. He clambers with tiny, determined fists onto the bed, wedges his little body between both his parents.

And – oh. A little girl too. Warm, earthy eyes like her mother, curious nature like her father. She wants to join them but she's too young and can't get a foothold. Her finger taps against her mother's cheek until she stirs, and with open arms she tugs the girl up into the sea of bodies and blankets.

Yes. This is their future.

She can't wait to start living it.

* * *

She loves every little crazy, annoying, _wonderful_ thing about him.

Even more, she loves this phenomenal idea of _them_.

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_kellisworld . tumblr . com_


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